As the ghost ship cleaved through wind and waves, the enemy fleet finally appeared upon the horizon.

Twelve massive warships formed a tightening semicircle. Each flew banners emblazoned with the raging wind and surging tide.

Lightning gathered atop every mast, lashing toward the ghost ship in relentless volleys.

Yet the black mist surrounding Phil's vessel proved astonishingly effective. Most bolts dissipated within the fog. Even those few that pierced the darkness veered wildly off course.

Was this how legendary-grade naval warfare was fought?

Ambrose felt his horizons expanding. He had imagined an exciting chase: warships trading spectacular magical bombardments as they zoomed through the surf.

Instead, what followed left him faintly disappointed.

The ghost ship surged forward at full speed and rammed straight into one of the Stormborn's warships. The sharp swordfish figurehead punched deep into the enemy hull. Locked together, both vessels shuddered violently. Then Phil boarded the other vessel.

Ambrose: "..."

How primitive. What a waste of such a remarkable ghost ship.

The black mist clearly blinded sight and distorted perception. It even deflected spells.

If Ambrose were the captain of this vessel, he would have maintained distance within the cover of fog and drowned the enemy in overwhelming spellfire.

But Sharpspear Phil evidently preferred a different approach. He raised his harpoon high and hurled it with all his strength.

The grotesque weapon streaked forward like lightning, skewering three sailors in a single throw before pinning them to the deck.

"Haha! Let me see how many I can skewer today!"

The next instant, the fish-man leapt aboard the enemy ship, yanking free his harpoon and launching into a fevered slaughter.

Ambrose quickly recognized Phil's style. Phil was a pure berserker, boasting tremendous speed and immense strength. His body appeared fragile, yet he strode through crackling lightning without hesitation, swinging his weapon as if the storm itself meant nothing.

The opposing vessel housed numerous stormpriests, iron hammers raised as they called down thunder. Bolts smashed into Phil again and again. But regardless of whether he had been scorched or pierced, each wound only seemed to sharpen his ferocity.

Nor did he fight alone. Once Phil secured his footing, hordes of wraiths poured out from the ghost ship and descended upon the warriors of the Ragetide Kingdom.

Their combat method was eerie. Ignoring their targets' armor entirely, they slipped directly into living flesh and possessed their victims. Many Stormborn, caught unprepared, found their bodies seized and their blades turned upon their former comrades.

It became a one-sided massacre. The Stormborn were not paladins of the Lord of Dawn. Their lightning magic was formidable, but wasn't a particularly good counter against undead. And ordinary sailors, unable to cast spells, could do nothing against incorporeal wraiths but flee.

Now Ambrose understood Phil's disdain. The disparity was overwhelming.

Within three minutes, the deck was cleared, and Phil bore only minor injuries. It was a complete victory.

But that was only the first ship.

Two more warships burst through the black mist, slamming into the ghost ship from either side.

Ambrose had to float into the air to avoid being flung about by the impact.

Another wave of boarding began.

Ambrose could only sigh. What kind of tactics were these?

Several Stormborn charged toward him. Ambrose calmly erected a Mage Shield, absorbing every strike.

The flames of war had reached him; Ambrose had to act in self-defense.

He swung his staff. With telekinesis, he seized one warrior and used him like a living battering ram to send others overboard.

By the time he finished battering what seemed like an endless wave of sailors, the unfortunate man had become little more than pulp. Ambrose dropped the corpse. It twitched, then rose anew as a zombie. The newly risen undead lunged at its former allies.

Such was undead warfare. The more enemies died, the larger your army grew.

And a mage's efficiency far surpassed a melee fighter's. Ambrose eliminated both ships' Stormborn far faster than Phil did.

Phil returned to the ghost ship, his body charred black in patches, gazing at Ambrose with admiration. "Incredible. No wonder you're the captain's friend."

Ambrose casually cast a Dark Healing spell. Black magic flowed into Phil's damaged flesh, restoring it. Though he was still half-rotted in appearance, most of the injuries he had sustained had vanished.

"Thanks!" Phil grinned. "Mages really are stronger than warriors. Shame we don't have many spellcasters in the Company."

Ambrose had no interest in idle chat at the moment. "Something feels wrong," he warned. "These Stormborn are too weak. There wasn't even a high-ranking stormpriest among them."

Though the Ragetide Kingdom was small, it was notorious across the continent. Such a reputation could not rest on fodder like this.

By Phil's account, they had clashed many times before. The enemy knew his strength. Why send mere cannon fodder?

Phil scratched his head. "Maybe they're out of people? The captain ambushed them hard last time and killed so many that they barely dared sail. Maybe all the strong ones are dead?"

Ambrose fell silent. Mute had not exaggerated. This fish-man truly lacked brains.

If they were truly depleted, why launch an attack at all? The Stormborn were mad, not stupid.

Something was off. His instincts rarely failed him, and he was certain there was a trap here.

But before he could pinpoint where it lay, two more ships smashed through the fog.

The seemingly weak warriors howled and boarded again, throwing themselves into certain death.

Phil swung his trident and returned to the fight.

This time, Ambrose did not intervene. He rose higher into the sky and surveyed the battlefield.

The Stormborn had fielded thirteen ships in total, twelve standard warships and one colossal flagship, its hull engraved entirely with lightning motifs.

The flagship unleashed constant thunderbolts, attempting to disperse the black mist. The others maneuvered blindly within it, guided by sound, as they tried to locate the ghost ship.

At first glance, it appeared a desperate suicide tactic.

But from high above, Ambrose saw the truth. The flagship was not firing randomly. The "suicidal" assaults were bait, drawing Phil's attention while the flagship prepared a far stronger strike.

Thousands of arcs of lightning intertwined overhead, weaving into a vast magical formation.

The formation enveloped the entire region of black mist. Terrible destructive force gathered within, and seemed to be nearing a critical threshold.

Once the formation was activated, everything within the fog would be annihilated indiscriminately. Even if Phil and his Swordfish were destroyed, the Stormborn's own warships would surely perish alongside them.

Ambrose could not help but murmur, "How ruthless. Are they even willing to sacrifice their own? Does the feud between this pirate company and the Ragetide Kingdom run that deep?"

Though he had little desire to involve himself in others' wars, he had come seeking assistance, hoping Mute would help him locate the elven divine artifact. Phil had abandoned his fleet to greet him. If Phil were to die here...

"Well. Consider this repayment for the wine."

Ambrose summoned the Golden Throne and began to chant.

Radiant brilliance flared around him, as though the sun had risen overhead.

The sudden light drew immediate attention. Several lightning bolts arced upward to strike him down.

All shattered against his Mage Shield. The enemy's spellcasters were occupied sustaining the grand lightning array. The few remaining could not break his defenses.

His incantation accelerated. Mana gathered in terrifying density. The very sea below seemed to dip from an invisible weight.

Even Phil, locked in battle within the fog, sensed the anomaly and looked skyward. Though he was no master of magic, he understood enough of what was happening. He roared, "Dive, now!"

Ghost ships had many advantages. For one, none of its crew could drown, and its propulsion came not from wind or the waves, but rather from its own dark magic.

As such, it could function as a submarine.

Phil wasn't quite sure what was happening, but hiding and waiting it out certainly didn't seem like a bad idea.

Metal scraped against wood as the Swordfish descended, grinding against the wreckage of shattered warships.

Within seconds, half the vessel had submerged.

Ambrose's magic reached completion.

Four blazing lights ignited in the heavens like falling stars descending with apocalyptic fury.

This was the ninth-tier evocation spell Meteor Shower.

Each spell of this tier possessed the power to destroy a city, but Meteor Shower was commonly regarded as the worst ninth-tier spell. Its accuracy was notoriously unreliable. Most casts missed entirely, wasting vast magical reserves to carve craters into empty ground. On unlucky days, it could even strike one's own allies.

It only shone in enormous wars where enemy forces were packed so densely together that it couldn't miss.

Furthermore, its casting time was so long that, even empowered by the Golden Throne, Ambrose had required dozens of seconds of preparation. The spell formation was conspicuous and easily interrupted.

All these drawbacks earned it ridicule.

And yet, despite all these shortcomings, it was still a ninth-tier spell.

A single hit could eradicate an enemy host for good.

And Ambrose was a diviner who never missed.

Four flaming meteors, roaring with annihilating heat, fell from the sky and headed straight for the Stormborn's colossal flagship.